


Give Me All Your Left Overs

by LayALioness



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Florist Bellamy, Tattoo Artist Clarke, florist Lexa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-14
Updated: 2016-05-14
Packaged: 2018-06-08 09:09:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6848377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LayALioness/pseuds/LayALioness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And this isn’t just a pretty girl--it’s his neighbor, and possibly a future customer. All things considered, Bellamy should probably act polite but professional, and nothing more.</p><p>“Dibs on the hot blonde tattoo artist,” he declares when Lexa shows up for her shift, half an hour after Clarke’s left.</p><p>Lexa scowls at him, which doesn’t seem totally fair. She hasn’t even seen Clarke yet, so it’s not like she knows what she’s missing. “You prefer men and women,” she says. “I only prefer women. Which means that, statistically speaking, you are far likelier to meet prospective partners. If you were a true friend, you would at least leave the women for me.”</p><p>Bellamy grins. “No, if I were a true friend, I’d put up a fight. I know how much you like competitions. You got kicked out of soccer for playing against everyone, including your own team.”</p><p>“It wasn’t my fault they were horrible,” Lexa sniffs.</p><p>“It was middle school,” Bellamy points out. “They were twelve.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Give Me All Your Left Overs

**Author's Note:**

> someone asked for Bellexa as grumpy florist best friends, so obviously this had to happen

Bellamy only started gardening in high school, when he came home to find a notice on the front door, threatening to fine them because they were violating some sort of Clean Lot town ordinance. Glancing out at the yard, he could understand why--there were stacks of tiles that his step-dad was supposed to use to patch up the roof, before he took off for Nevada, or some other western state with heat waves and casinos. There were piles of scrap metal and cinder blocks and some sort of fancy vegan mulch, and Bellamy wasn’t really sure _what_ those were for, but his step-dad probably had something to do with them. The Halloween decorations were still up, even though it was March--little rain-soaked cloth ghosts sagging from the prickly pear trees, and plywood fake headstones that he and Octavia handmade last year.

The fine threatened was over four hundred dollars, which seemed more than a bit steep considering the yard itself was roughly the size of a postage stamp, but Bellamy knew his mom was still scrambling to come up with money each month for the mortgage and electricity bills, so he rolled up his sleeves and got to work. He moved the tiles around back, and weeded through the overgrown flowerbeds as best he could, before spreading out the mulch there. He sold the cinder blocks to their neighbor Stitch, an eccentric Vietnam War vet who inexplicably smelled like burnt rubber, and liked to collect weird things, like those ornamental pencil erasers, and snow globes with Santa Clauses in Hawaiian shirts. He used the money to buy some one-dollar packets of flower seeds, the most interesting ones he could find, and sprinkled them over the mulch, like the packet directions said to. he convinced Cece, the woman next door, to let him use her lawn mower, as long as he promised to cut her grass too. It was the push kind, that had to be refilled twice, with a wire that he had to tug, to start the motor.

By the end of the week, Bellamy was sore and sunburned and pretty much resigned to spend the rest of his life indoors, with air conditioning.

But then a few months later, things started to grow from the seeds he’d planted.

Octavia discovered them first, while she was hunting for some four-leaf clovers. She’d read some sort of kids’ fantasy book and was newly obsessed with the idea of magic, constantly collecting little rocks and bird feathers that she thought might come in handy one day--for what, Bellamy wasn’t sure, but he made sure to keep an eye out for them too, so he could add to her collection.

She came running into find him building a popsicle stick bridge, for Physics, on the dining room table. He’d had to pile up all the usual clutter at one end, to make room, and kept checking to make sure it wasn’t about to topple over.

“Bell!” she called, out of breath because she didn’t know how to just _walk_ anywhere. “Your flowers are here!”

Bellamy frowned over at her. “My what?”

Octavia just huffed and tugged him outside so he could see the little green sprouts for himself.

Bellamy crouched down, so he could study them closer, and feel the weight of the tiny buds in his hand. That was where the bloom would come from, he knew from rudimentary biology. “They might not make it,” he warned his sister. “Some plants die really easily.”

Octavia just rolled her eyes because of course she _knew_ that already. She knew everything, these days. “I’m not an idiot, Bell,” she said. “But don’t worry; you’ll keep them alive.”

He wanted to argue, so she wouldn’t get her hopes up, but in the end she was right. There was just something about knowing that the flowers were only there because he put them there, that kept him checking up on them each afternoon, looking up plant-care tips on the computers at school, buying a watering can and some flower food from Lowe’s with his lawn-mowing money.

It didn’t even take that much work--just half an hour each day after school, and sometimes he’d spend Saturday morning on his knees in the dirt, pulling weeds and dislodging ladybugs. It was relaxing.

Bellamy started looking up different, more interesting plants that could grow in their mid-Atlantic climate. His mom started buying him little potted flowers she found in the gardening aisle at Walmart, and for Christmas, his stocking was filled with packets of new seeds. Cece noticed, and hired him to work on her garden too, and soon word got around, until he had ten front lawns on his payroll.

It was the sort of thing he probably should have been bullied for, but the constant yard work had built up his arms, and he went through a growth spurt his Junior year that gave him a few inches on the other guys in his class.

And then suddenly he was seventeen, applying for colleges, mouse hovering over the MAJOR IN: check box.

That’s how Octavia found him. “What are you doing?” She rested her chin on his shoulder, so she could peek at his screen. She was about to be thirteen, and Bellamy was glad she wasn’t as tall as the rest of the girls in her class. He could still comfortably use her as an arm rest, when they were both standing.

“I’m not sure what I should study,” he admitted.

“Flowers,” Octavia said immediately, and he bit back a grin. “Or--I don’t know. Ancient Rome. Flowers _and_ Ancient Rome. Can you do that?”

“I guess so,” he shrugged, dislodging her head. But the truth is, he wasn’t sure he wanted to. He liked learning about history, he liked reading the stories and retelling them to Octavia whenever she couldn’t sleep, but he wasn’t sure that was what he wanted to do with his life. He couldn’t see himself in a classroom, looking out at a bunch of teenagers who didn’t even want to be there. He’d never understood why anyone would want to teach, and if he wasn’t teaching, then what good would a history degree do?

But did he really want to mow lawns all day, for the rest of his life? Did he want to crawl through the dirt on his hands and knees, sweating in the summer heat, with soil permanently embedded under his nails?

 _Yes_ , he realized. He really did.

“Flowers,” Octavia said, decisive, like she’d just read his mind.

“Flowers,” Bellamy agreed, clicking the HORTICULTURE option, before minoring in history, just because. Even if he never used it professionally, he wouldn’t mind filling up his course load with a bunch of classes on old Welsh kings and Mayan religions.

Bellamy’s first year at university was, in the simplest terms, overwhelming. It took him nearly two weeks until he had the directions to all his classes memorized, and he hadn’t realized there was a reading list for his Lit class, so he failed the first exam. His roommate was a theater major named Bryan, who was nice enough, but quiet and mostly kept to himself. His boyfriend Miller was a little more Bellamy’s style, and he had an x-box in his room, so Bellamy would migrate down the hall whenever he felt his brain start to melt during an essay.

It didn’t help matters that his financial aid barely kept him afloat, paying for classes but not for books, or extra supplies that he knew were probably unnecessary, but his professors required anyway. Bryan worked most nights in the dining hall, busing tables, but on nights he had to spend cramming, he’d pass his shifts off to Bellamy, so he could earn some extra cash. He managed to get a few tutoring gigs going in the campus library, but even with all the odd jobs he picked up, Bellamy was still just scraping by.

He didn’t meet Lexa until his second semester, and that was when things started to turn around.

“Let’s get one thing straight,” she said in place of hello, when he sat down. The class was just a semester long, called Flower Symbolism in Ancient Mythology, which struck Bellamy’s fancy on every level, and the seat beside Lexa was the last one available. She was a brunette, dressed simply in a pair of skinny pants and a button-down flannel, with those dark wings drawn on her eyelids, looking sharp enough to slice skin. “There will be no chatting, no passing of notes, and before you hit on me, you should know you’re not my type.”

She didn’t even glance up from her book as she spoke, and Bellamy found himself getting annoyed without really meaning to. Normally he didn’t care about rejection, but he’d slept through his alarm and barely made it to class, and he’d fallen asleep in his glasses again so now they were even more crooked. It wasn’t a very good morning.

“Well, what is your type?” he asked, snide, because he isn’t above getting snotty.

She just sighed a little, like _he_ was the one irritating _her_ , and tipped her head towards the pretty Asian girl in the corner of the room. “She’s my type.”

“Ah,” Bellamy said, feeling suddenly awkward. So she was a little bit bitter and presumptuous, so what? So was he, to be honest. He stuck his hand out. “Well, don’t worry, you aren’t my type either. I usually only go for girls who are into me. Or guys who are into me. I’m Bellamy, by the way.”

She eyed him up and down for a moment, like she was taking stock, before finally clenching his hand with her own, definitely tighter than was absolutely necessary. She grinned like a shark, and he liked her. “Lexa.”

He squeezed her hand back with a grin of his own. “Charmed.”

And that was how he met his best friend.

Things got a little easier after that. Bellamy hadn’t realized how nice it was, to have a friend in his actual major. Lexa leaned more towards ornamental flowers than he did--how to arrange them, and make them look nice in vases, or on those fancy little tables that rich people had in their entryways--while Bellamy stuck with things like landscaping, or wild vines that grew on lampposts. They bickered back and forth constantly, to the point where the rest of their peers couldn’t decide if they secretly hated each other, but Bellamy just figured that was how Lexa was with all her friends.

It took him a month to realize she didn’t _have_ other friends. He’d just assumed she was private about that kind of stuff. Maybe her other friends were rich, like she was, and she figured he wouldn’t have much in common with them, so she never invited them to hang out.

Or maybe, he thought, when he was elbow-deep in plates of old tuna salad and feeling sorry for himself, she was just embarrassed of him.

He figured it out one Monday, sliding into the seat beside her in class, feeling only still a _little_ hungover from Saturday night. Monty flashed him a wave from two tables over. He was one of the Botany kids, who got into the business of plants for the science side--and also for the side where they experimented with growing different strands of marijuana, in their dorm room closets.

Bellamy waved back and then turned to Lexa, crossing his hands behind his head. Professor Pike wasn’t in class yet, so they still had a few minutes to kill, and he hadn’t seen her since lunch on Friday. “How was your weekend?”

“Not as interesting as yours, no doubt,” she said, voice clipped and shorter than usual. Well, at least shorter than she usually was with him. It was no secret that Lexa didn’t really like most people, but over the last few weeks she’d developed a bit of a soft spot for Bellamy. He liked to think it was because she recognized a kindred grumpy spirit in him, but more realistically it was simply because she realized there was no getting rid of him, so she might as well get used to his presence.

“Ah, come on. I’m sure you had fun on your roommate’s yacht, or whatever it is the one percent does in their free time. Brunch on a private jet? Croquet in Paris?” Bellamy was joking--mostly--but Lexa sneered, and suddenly the mood wasn’t so light.

“Better than doing a keg stand in my underwear.”

Bellamy’s mouth went dry in surprise. He’d never heard her so defensive. He should probably just apologize; he’d clearly taken things too far--although he still wasn’t quite sure _how_. They poked fun at each other constantly, whether about how he preferred plain field wildflowers to orchids, or about how she designed Prom corsages in her spare time.

But regardless, he should definitely apologize.

“Joke’s on you,” he snapped back, “I did that keg stand _naked_.”

“Of course you did,” Lexa hissed, stuffing her books in the fancy leather bag she carried, still looking fresh from the Venetian store where she got it. She stood up to leave.

“Where are you going?”

“To lie down,” she glared. “Suddenly I’m feeling nauseous.”

Bellamy took notes for both of them, and swung by her dorm on the way to his own. He only knew which building was hers because Polis housed all the kids who _should_ be Ivy League but decided to go to State instead, for whatever reason.

He was thinking he might have to go door-to-door, but then he saw the name placards from the first week were all still taped up. He was a little surprised at the lack of dry erase boards and holographic Disney XD stickers, like in his own building, but it just figured that the rich kids wouldn’t be interested in announcing their personality on the fake wood paneling of their doors.

LEXA WOODS was the fifth door on the second floor, and it looked like she didn’t have a roommate, since there wasn’t a second name under hers.There was a sprig of dried iris taped up beside it. He only knocked once before the door swung open, because Lexa was the most punctual person he’d ever known.

She was wearing pajamas. The matching set kind sold in plastic packages at Bed Bath & Beyond for forty dollars. It was more endearing than anything--Bellamy never thought people actually wore pajama sets, outside of L. L. Bean models.

“Bellamy,” she said, clearly surprised, and trying not to fidget.

Bellamy shoved the extra copy of notes at her. “You missed out on the pomegranate from The Rape of Persephone,” he blurted.

Lexa took hold of the notes and frowned at him. “Charles already emailed me his power point slides.”

Bellamy should have known, really; Lexa was on a first-name basis with all the professors, of course they’d send her their own notes.

“But--thank you,” she added, a little awkward. And then, “I should not have made that keg stand comment. I’m sure you spent your weekend in better ways.”

“Nah,” Bellamy ducked down to hide his grin. “I really did do a keg stand naked. But if it makes you feel better, it was only because a bunch of sorority girls paid me fifty bucks.”

Lexa snorted, the most unkempt Bellamy had ever seen her. “Of course you did. And if it makes _you_ feel better, I did _not_ have brunch on a yacht.”

“Private jet?” he asked, and she glared at him.

“Actually, I thought you might want to work on that project you were talking about,” she snapped. “Or something.”

Bellamy frowned. “The one where we turn bouquets into Greek statues?”

“No,” Lexa deadpanned. “That other project you mentioned.”

“Whatever, shut up. You wanted to hang out with me?” So far he’d only ever seen Lexa in a co-student capacity--getting lunch at the mess hall, or having coffee at the on-campus cafe, or studying together in the library. “Why didn’t you text me or something?”

Lexa huffed a little, opening her door so he could step inside. Her dorm looked like the rest of her did--everything neat and in place. She had a million desk organizers, all organized among themselves. Even her collection of fountain pens was tidied up.

Her bed was made up with a floral comforter, like something out of a room magazine for kids, and she motioned for him to sit down on it, while she took the metal desk chair.

“You mentioned the party on Friday, at lunch,” she started. “I assumed that meant you might like me to go, so I waited for you to send me the address. But you didn’t.”

“I figured you wouldn’t want to go,” Bellamy explained. “It was just a bunch of potheads, and kids from Greek Row--low-brow stuff. There was rap music.”

“You think I don’t like rap music?”

Bellamy blinked. “Do you?”

“I can get down,” Lexa frowned, and Bellamy laughed.

When he could breathe again, he said “I’m sorry I didn’t invite you to the party. I thought you’d have plans or something. You always seem busy.”

“I have twenty-one credits,” Lexa agreed, and Bellamy cringed, reflexively.

“See? I guess I thought you just--thought parties were stupid.” He sighed. “And me.”

Lexa’s frown deepened. “I don’t think you are stupid. You have the next highest grades in class, behind me.”

Bellamy bit back a smile. “I know you don’t think I’m _stupid_ , but I thought you didn’t want to be seen with me.”

“Why would you think that?” she demanded. “Who said I didn’t want to be seen with you? Of course I want to be seen with you. You’re my best friend.”

She said it so simply, that for a moment, Bellamy was thrown. “We’ve only been friends for a month,” he said, slow, and watched as Lexa reddened.

“Is that moving too quickly?” she asked. “I’m sorry I don’t know the appropriate length of time for the growth of a friendship. This is all very new for me.”

Bellamy smiled down at his hands. He hadn’t had many close friends, growing up. People had liked him well enough, and he’d sat with the popular kids at the lunch table, but he’d been busy looking after O, and working on neighbors’ yards, so he hadn’t had time for things like birthday parties or sleepovers. Even now, the closest he’d gotten was Miller, and he didn’t even know Miller’s middle name.

Lexa’s was Alicia. Her favorite color was brown, because she thought it was no-nonsense, and it reminded her of the earth. Her favorite flower was the crocus, because her mom grew them, when she was a kid. She’d wanted to own a flower shop since she was six years old, but she came from a family of architects and diplomats, and _gardener_ just didn’t have the same ring to it, so they sent her off to get a degree for something she could do with her eyes closed.

“I’ll show you the ropes,” he decided. “Friendship’s easy, don’t worry. I’ve been told I’m a great teacher, so just watch and--” Lexa kicked him in the shin.

“Don’t push it, Blake.”

He didn’t say it back until two weeks later, at a massive kegger hosted by some guy he tutored in Latin. He’d passed his last exam with a B-, the highest grade he’d ever gotten, and had invited Bellamy as a gesture.

“Can I bring a plus one?” Bellamy asked, and the guy--Todd, he was pretty sure. Or something just as douchey--grinned like they shared a secret.

“So the rumors are true, then?” he grinned. “You managed to convert the Commander?”

Bellamy frowned. “Commander?”

“Lexa Woods,” Todd-Or-Whatever explained. “She’s like a general or something, hence, _Commander_. Totally thought she was a dyke.”

Bellamy _glowered_. “She’s a _lesbian_ , yeah. And my best friend, so watch it.”

Todd-Or-Whatever threw up both hands, in surrender. “My b, B. So, see you at seven? It’s bring your own beer.”

Bellamy picked Lexa up at eight, because fuck Todd, they’d show up when they wanted to. She opened the door wearing a dress that was way too expensive for where they were going, and Bellamy glanced down at his own ripped jeans and scuffed sneakers. Lexa just rolled her eyes.

“Believe me, I am used to your homeless fashion sense by now,” she said, like it pained her, but she took his arm as they walked, anyway.

Bellamy led her to the off-campus co-op house that’d become known for its ragers within the first few weeks of the school year. He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen it _not_ vibrating with the bass of some dance number.

Lexa wrinkled her nose in distaste. “Charming.”

Bellamy barked out a laugh, and led her up the front steps, careful to avoid the crumpled up aluminum cans and red Solo cups. “Shut up, _god_ you’re pretentious.” Lexa just grinned, because she knew it was true.

He said it again an hour later, when he found her dancing _under_ the dining room table, as the crowd tossed twenty dollar bills on the floor, like they were at a strip club. Thankfully, she was still fully dressed, albeit with a few more drink stains than when he’d last seen her, and she only stumbled a little when he pulled her off the floor. He managed to pocket most of the cash, too.

“Come on, boozy,” he cooed, and laughed when she tried to shove him, but couldn’t because her depth perception was off. She let him drag her out to the back yard, where someone had inexplicably moved the sofa to. A couple of undergrads were dry humping on the paisley cushions, and Lexa booed them as they passed.

There was a wooden play set at the far end of the yard, probably left over from before the college bought the property--or maybe Todd-Or-Whatever and his housemates bought the thing from Home Depot, for some undisclosed reason. Either way, they made their way over to it, and climbed up onto the platform, letting their legs dangle off the edge because it was so small.

“Tell me star stories,” Lexa demanded, lying back against what turned out to be _plastic_ that was patterned to resemble wood. Bellamy wasn’t sure why that seemed so applicable to the rest of his life, as it was. “I know you know them,” she waggled her fingers at him, and flicked him in the nose. “ _You_ are a nerd.”

“Coming from you?”

“Yes, but you are a sentimental nerd,” Lexa sniffed, because she was clearly better than him. Bellamy rolled his eyes.

“There aren’t any flower constellations, you know.”

“What a crime,” Lexa said, deadly serious, and Bellamy watched her glare up at the stars, like they had personally offended her.

“You’re my best friend too,” he told her, and she smiled, just a little, to herself.

“Good.” Then she said “I am going to vomit,” and leaned over the side, to do just that. Bellamy reached over to comb her hair back for her, while she heaved, and then half carried her back to her dorm, so they could sleep off their hangovers together.

The next year, Bellamy roomed with Miller, which was a pleasant coincidence, and woke up to an envelope from the finances office taped to his door, explaining that his financial aid had now doubled in size, which did not feel like a coincidence at all.

Lexa had managed to keep her single dorm room from freshman year, because she was Lexa, and she could do things like finagle her housing situation. Or convince the school accountants to cushion her best friend’s wallet.

So Bellamy knew exactly where to find her, and walked in without bothering to knock.

She was making out with a redhead, on the new settee she’d moved in across the room, and Bellamy waited off to the side while she made her excuses, and sent the girl off with one last kiss. Lexa looked only a little annoyed, when she turned back to him.

“What the hell is this?” he waved the envelope at her, and Lexa huffed a little before snatching it up, so she could study it.

“It looks like a letter,” she decided, and Bellamy scoffed.

“I _know_ what it is, Lexa.”

Lexa’s face remained completely impassive, a trait which Bellamy liked whenever they were tag-teaming the local assholes at pool, but it now just irritated him. “Then why did you ask?”

“Because,” Bellamy ran a hand through his hair, ruining it even further. He couldn’t remember the last time he washed it, couldn’t remember the last time he’d had enough spare change to buy a new pair of shoes, or not worry about money. He didn’t know who he _was_ , if he wasn’t worrying about money. “You can’t just _do_ this, Lexa.”

“Do what?”

Bellamy stared at her. “Buy me. I’m not-- _god_ , I’m not some pet, that you have to take care of, and make sure I get all my shots on time.”

Lexa’s mouth dropped open, just a little, and for the first time, she looked genuinely shocked. “That’s what you think? That I did this to bribe you?”

Bellamy felt his jaw click, he was clenching it so hard. “Did you?”

“I was trying to _help_ \--”

“Well, I don’t need help,” he cut her off, and Lexa frowned at him.

“Everyone needs help, Bellamy.” She looked away, and Bellamy couldn’t remember the last time she’s backed down like that. Arguments with Lexa usually turned into a staring contest, which she always won because she was practically _reptilian_ , and never had to blink. “You helped me last year. Consider this me, repaying the favor.”

“I took you to a couple parties,” Bellamy scoffed. “I’d hardly call that _help_.”

“Do you know how many friends I had in high school?” Lexa asked, sudden. When he shook his head, she said “None. Middle school? None. Elementary; none. My parents sent me to a special preschool as well, for gifted children.”

“And let me guess, you had no friends there, either.”

“I had one,” Lexa corrected. “Mister Gustus, the teacher. He was very kind to me. But no one my age has ever thought I was,” she hesitated, searching for the right word. “Approachable,” she decided. “Or, worth approaching. They thought I _must_ think I was above them, and so they didn’t even try. Until you.”

“You were the only open seat,” Bellamy said, clearing his throat a little. It’s just--he’d known, of course, that he was Lexa’s closest friend at school. But he hadn’t realized he was her closest friend, _ever_. He glared down at his shoes. The sole of the left one had started to wear through near the toes, so he’d had to duct tape it.

“You’re infuriating,” Lexa said, but it was affectionate. “I really did just want to help. I know how smart you are. You’re second highest ranked. It seems ridiculous, that you might not be able to stay, just because of _money_. I’d lose all my competition, and where’s the fun in that?”

Bellamy bit back a smile. “So really, you’re saying you did this for _you_.”

Lexa nodded, grave. “Totally selfish reasons,” she agreed.

Two days later, Todd-Or-Whatever called her a dyke under his breath in Trig, and Bellamy turned around and punched him. Lexa glared at him the whole time he iced his hand with the pack of frozen gourmet peas she kept in her mini fridge--the kind from Whole Foods, that he could never afford.

“I could have taken care of him myself,” she said stiffly, and Bellamy grinned.

“Consider this me, repaying the favor,” he teased, and she threw her pillow at him.

Lexa graduated as valedictorian, like he knew she would. Bellamy was edged out as salutatorian by Roan Azgeda, a transfer from Chicago, who was some sort of English Lit genius. Lexa offered to have him _dealt with_ \--whatever that terrifying statement meant--and Bellamy had no doubt that she could, but he turned her down. He was just happy to walk the stage. The whole thing felt surreal; his mom and Octavia managed to fly out to watch, and he knew Lexa must have had something to do with the fact that suddenly they could afford the round-trip tickets, but honestly he was past questioning her about it. If she ever special ordered him an Italian sports car, _then_ he would draw the line.

But it turned out, she got them something better.

“What is this?” he asks, glancing around the space. It’s clearly what used to be a dance studio, hollowed out and now for sale, judging by the sign in the enormous bay window. Lexa gives him her most unimpressed look. “Okay, _why_ are we here?”

“Because we now own it,” Lexa says simply, and Bellamy chokes on air.

“I’m sorry, we _what_?”

Lexa shrugs, looking for too blase for his liking. She always does this when she spends enormous amounts of money, because she knows he won’t approve. “Consider it a graduation present, from my parents.”

“They bought you a dance studio,” he says slowly, and Lexa clicks her tongue like she’s scolding a dog. His frown deepens.

“They bought _us_ a _store,”_ she corrects, and Bellamy stares at her. “I told them about our plans, to open up our own shop. So they made a preemptive strike.”

“A _preemptive strike_ \--” Bellamy breathes. “Your parents bought us a store.”

“They _invested_ in our business,” Lexa says, and he grins.

“Honestly, I know I should be pissed because you made this decision without me, but,” he walks over and scoops her up to spin her around. She shrieks, legs flying. “We have a _store_!”

“We have a store,” she confirms, and wiggles and squirms until he sets her back down. She makes a show of brushing her pencil skirt, like he somehow got her dusty.

“Okay, well, I guess now we just have to think about the important stuff,” he decides, and she nods.

“Logistics,” she agrees. “I’ll call the electrician, and the building manager in the--”

“No,” he cuts her off. “What are we going to name it?”

ANTHOS has been open for three days, when Clarke walks in. She’s wearing a pair of acid-wash jeans and a shirt that says I PUT THE BI IN GOODBYE, hair a cloudy mass of sunlit curls around her shoulders, like it hasn’t been brushed in months. She’s carrying a tupperware container in her hands, and greets Bellamy with a sunny smile.

“Hey, neighbor,” she grins, and hands him the plate. From what he can see beyond the blue-tinged lid, it’s filled with lemon bars. “Welcome to the block.”

“Uh, thanks,” he juggles the lemon bars and the pink carnations he’s holding, so he can offer her a hand. “I’m Bellamy. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Clarke,” she says, gesturing to what might have constituted as a name tag, by lesser standards. It was a scrap of paper with CLARKE scrawled hastily across it in marker, and safety-pinned to her shirt. Her hand is soft and warm and a little bit calloused. When she pulls away, there’s a smear of blue ink left on Bellamy’s skin.

“I run the tattoo place next door,” she offers, and Bellamy nods, only feeling a little bit awkward.

He’s been out of school for a while now, but he’s been busy--running the store, and getting everything together to own a business, and moving into their new apartment downtown. Lexa could easily afford to live on her own, but she’d probably forget to eat dinner at least three times a week, and Bellamy’s price range was more suited to the rat-infested studio above the local laundromat, which Lexa obviously wasn’t about to let him live in, so it just made sense that they would room together.

It’s been a while since he’s done this; small talked, flirting just around the edges, with a girl so pretty he almost has to look away. He had at least a little game in college, enough to get laid pretty regularly, but that was a totally different atmosphere, made of frat houses with tube socks stuck to the ceiling, or local bars that did two-dollar-martini-hour’s.

And this isn’t just a pretty girl--it’s his neighbor, and possibly a future customer. All things considered, he should probably act polite but professional, and nothing more.

“Dibs on the hot blonde tattoo artist,” he declares when Lexa shows up for her shift, half an hour after Clarke’s left.

Lexa scowls at him, which doesn’t seem totally fair. She hasn’t even _seen_ Clarke yet, so it’s not like she knows what she’s missing. “You prefer men and women,” she says. “I only prefer women. Which means that, statistically speaking, you are far likelier to meet prospective partners. If you were a true friend, you would at least leave the women for me.”

Bellamy grins. “No, if I were a true friend, I’d put up a fight. I know how much you like competitions. You got kicked out of soccer for playing against _everyone_ , including your own team.”

“It wasn’t my fault they were horrible,” Lexa sniffs.

“It was middle school,” Bellamy points out. “They were _twelve_.”

“Twelve is the new twenty,” she shrugs, slipping on her apron before grabbing a pack of roses whose thorns still needed to be snipped off over the giant mop sink in the back. “Fine, you may have the blonde tattoo artist,” she decides, heaving a sigh too large for her body. “She’s probably not my type, anyway. You tend to have terrible taste.”

She meets Clarke the next day around lunchtime, just after she and Bellamy play a long round of Drunk Paper Scissors to decide which delivery place to call.

Drunk Paper Scissors is the result of Lexa’s love for competition, Bellamy’s refusal to lose anything ever, and half a dozen aluminum cans of skittles-flavored vodka. They either forgot which hand movements were in the original version of rock-paper-scissors, or they temporarily lost full control of their fingers, so more than a few new signs were added to the game, just because neither of them wanted to surrender. Things like Atomic Bomb, Giant Squid, and Mind Control--all of which are crushed by Falling Meteor, but which in turn trump Alien Space Ship. It’s a complicated game, and Bellamy isn’t positive they both know all the rules, completely.

Either way, Bellamy manages to swing a win, which means sushi, and they’re both camped behind the counter, waiting for their food to arrive, when Clarke walks in.

“Hey, Clarke,” Bellamy calls, feeling a little smug when Lexa levels a glare at him as Clarke waves.

“ _That’s_ the blonde tattoo artist?” she hisses. His grin just widens.

“Hi Bellamy,” Clarke chirps, oblivious to their arguing, even as Lexa simmers stoically by his side. Lexa does most things stoically; it’s what he makes fun of the most, about her.

(That, and the time she drunkenly referred to herself as _Pussy Commander_. He will never let her live that down.)

“I just wanted to see if you guys might be interested in lunch,” Clarke says, reaching out to pet the soft petals of a tiger lily. She crinkles her nose up at it, pleased, and is all around the most adorable tattoo artist Bellamy has ever seen--even with her tattoos and cleavage. Which he isn’t staring at, because he’s a good person. “Lincoln ordered way too much pizza,” she adds, as an afterthought.

“Lincoln?” Lexa asks, polite, but Bellamy knows her too well. Anytime she gets within flirting distance of a pretty girl, the bedroom eyes come out. It’s like a reflex for her.

“My business partner,” Clarke explains, glancing between the two hopefully, before hesitating on Lexa. “Sorry, I didn’t know there were two of you. I would have brought more lemon bars.”

“There were _lemon bars_?” Lexa whirls on Bellamy, outraged.

Bellamy rolls his eyes. “They’re in the fridge, at home. I thought you’d see them.” He flashes Clarke a conspiratorial grin. “If I’d actually pointed them out to her, they wouldn’t have lasted the day.” Lexa swats him in the shoulder, and he feigns being hurt--although it’s not _completely_ faked. Lexa has incredibly sharp knuckles.

“Lincoln made them, actually,” Clarke admits, leaning over so Bellamy catches her whisper, and he gives a dramatic gasp, the kind he’s perfected over the years as an older brother.

“I can’t believe you gave me fake baked goods.”

“They’re not _fake_! I just wasn’t the one who made them.”

Bellamy shakes his head in disappointment, as Lexa crosses over to greet the sushi delivery boy at the door. “Our friendship is based on a lie.”

“Well, nothing mends a broken friendship quite like pizza,” Clarke tries, and he follows her out of the shop, switching the sign on the door to CLOSED. Thirty minutes won’t hurt anyone.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “That’s what I’ve heard.”

TONDC INK is relatively small, the same size as the flower shop, but way more cluttered and filled with old discount thrift shop furniture. Clarke’s partner, Lincoln, is an enormous man who probably _could_ have eaten all of the pizza, himself, but he seems more than happy to share, anyway.

“You’re the florist,” Lincoln decides, aiming a slice at Bellamy’s head, for emphasis. Bellamy nods, and Lincoln nods back. “You have very nice flowers.”

Coming from any other giant, muscular tattoo artist, Bellamy would assume he was mocking him. But this particular giant, muscular tattoo artist has several detailed and almost _gentle-looking_ floral designs permanently sketched onto his body, so he’s fairly sure the compliment is genuine.

“Thanks,” he says, threw a mouthful of pepperoni. “Lexa’s the one who does all the arranging, though. I just grow them in the garden behind our apartment. I’m pretty sure we’re not allowed to have one, but the landlord hasn’t noticed yet, so,” he shrugs, and Lincoln perks up.

“You have a garden?” It turns out he’s a bigger fan of flowers than Bellamy anticipated, and before he knows it, he finds himself agreeing to help Lincoln start his own small berry farm.

That’s how Clarke finds them a few minutes later, grinning softly at her partner, like there’s a shared joke between them. Which there probably is--Bellamy has his own fair share of inside jokes with his friends. And by friends, of course, he means Lexa. And maybe Octavia, but he’s pretty sure an ongoing Neko Atsume war with his kid sister that has stretched on for much longer than is arguably healthy, doesn’t count.

“Is he bothering you?” Clarke asks, and then turns on Lincoln. “Stop bothering the new guy. He doesn’t care about your pies.”

“Actually, we were discussing berries,” Lincoln snarks, and then goes a little pink. “Admittedly, the berries _will_ be a part of my pies, in the future.”

“He’s really big into baking,” Clarke explains, rolling her eyes at Bellamy, the perfect picture of a long-suffering girlfriend. “He enters competitions and stuff.”

“And stuff,” Lincoln snorts, drifting off probably to commiserate with Lexa about the classlessness of their respective business partners.

“He’s a dork, but he means well,” Clarke chirps, turning back to Bellamy, who suddenly isn’t sure how to respond. He’d been content to just sort of flirt aimlessly with her, hoping it might somehow work out for him, but now he knows she’s someone else’s girlfriend, and he may be a dick but he’s not _that_ kind of dick. And she’s still painfully hot and showing a lot of cleavage. He can see the hint of what looks like a pomegranate blossom on her right breast, and he isn’t sure what to do with that knowledge. He isn’t even sure what to do with his _hands_ \--it’s like eighth grade all over again.

“He seems great,” Bellamy agrees. “So how did you guys meet?”

“I walked in on him hooking up with my best friend,” Clarke grins cheerfully, and Bellamy chokes on nothing. It certainly is a _unique_ sort of meet-cute. “Wells,” she adds. “They’ve been together for five years, now. We finally decided to open up a shop together last June.”

 _Ah_ , so it isn’t _her_ meet-cute. Which means Bellamy is free to file away that pomegranate tattoo for later.

“What about you and Lexa?” Clarke asks, before he manages to say something caught between charming and cringe-worthy.

“College,” he grins without really meaning to. It’s just so _funny_ ; she’d been so grumpy that first day. She’s still grumpy now, but at least now they get to be grumpy together. They can take turns. “I sat down beside her in class, and the first thing she said was that I wasn’t allowed to hit on her.”

It makes Clarke laugh, and Bellamy walks back to his own store feeling rather pleased with himself. The sight of it makes Lexa scowl immediately.

“Should I remind you how incompetent you are?” she asks, mild. “Hint: _very_. Also, your hair is always ridiculous.”

“People like my hair,” Bellamy says, patting at it. “It’s soft. Cuddly. Approachable.”

“Is that what they wrote on your name placard, at the county pound?”

Bellamy grins. “So on a scale of one to a thousand, how jealous are you that the hot tattoo artist likes me?”

“She just doesn’t know better yet,” Lexa huffs. “Now are you going to help me with these chrysanthemums or not?”

 

That’s just how things are, for the next few weeks. They don’t always have lunch together, but they usually do, either at the flower shop or the parlor. Bellamy teaches Clarke Drunk Paper Scissors so they can all take turns choosing the delivery place, which causes Lexa to give him the silent treatment for a few days, after. Bellamy’s pretty sure she’s just got a case of Only Child Syndrome, and is feeling a little forgotten. To make up for it, he buys her a fancy-looking day planner from Barnes & Noble, which for anyone else would seem like kind of a filler gift, but Lexa looks at to-do lists the way most people look at chocolate cake.

He throws in a few specialty candles from the mall, for her to add to her collection. The whole apartment smells like lemon meringue for a month.

But even after three weeks of back-and-forth lunches and even a temporary tattoo that Clarke draws in Sharpie on his left ankle--a grape vine, of all things. It’s intricate and perfect and he keeps it on for days after, until it finally washes off--Bellamy still can’t seem to get a read on Clarke Griffin.

“It’s just,” he sighs, running a hand through his hair for the twentieth time that morning. He’s sitting on the kitchen counter while Lexa makes her weird version of French Toast, which she apparently learned from a pastry chef in Paris, because Lexa can’t do anything ordinary, ever. “One minute, she’s ogling my arms, and I think she might say yes if I ask her to dinner--and then the next, she’s giving me a high five and calling me _buddy_.” He leans back until his head _thumps_ against the cupboard. He doesn’t even wince. “Lexa, why are girls so complicated?”

“We aren’t, men are just stupid,” she says, and he makes a face.

“You’re right, that was a dumb question. Any real advice?”

“Play hard to get,” she suggests, sounding totally at odds with the Lexa he’s used to. He was expecting something more along the lines of _sacrifice a small animal to the pagan god of relationships_ , or _kill every other suitor she might have, so you’re the only option left_ , honestly. “Hire a fake date, to make her jealous.”

Bellamy eyes her, suspicious. “Have you been reading Daria/Jane fanfiction again?”

“They would have been _perfect_ together,” Lexa growls immediately, just like he knew she would. So, she’s not possessed, or a pod person. What other options are left?

“Oh my god,” Bellamy straightens, and grins when he sees her shoulders tense. “You have a _crush_! Or--holy shit, are you _dating_ someone?”

Lexa stays quiet for a moment and then sighs, resigned, which means it must be serious. Lexa never gives into his wheedling this easily. “She wants to take things slow,” she says. “This would be her first actual relationship.”

Bellamy swats her with a tea towel as she walks by, and she scowls at him. “Cougar,” he accuses.

“Imbecile,” she shoots back, and then they spend the next ten minutes grappling for the towel, while Bellamy tries to not lose his perch.

“I can’t believe this,” he laughs when she finally gives up and marches off, weird French toast forgotten. “Is it someone I know?”

Lexa hesitates, which means it is, and then says “No,” which means it _definitely_ is. Bellamy frowns.

“It’s not Clarke, is it? This isn’t a _My Best Friend’s Girl_ situation? I won’t be mad, but I’d prefer you to be honest.”

She softens a little, like she always does when she remembers that she actually does _like_ him. “No, you idiot.” She goes quiet. “Look, it’s not much of anything yet, alright? I’ll let you know when it is.”

“Yeah, you better,” he grins, stupidly happy for his best friend. He knows she hasn’t had anything since her TA Anya, and that hadn’t ended well for anyone involved. He’s glad she’s finally getting out there again; Lexa is the most guarded person he knows, but she has so much love to give, if she’d just let herself. “I have to give them the _What Are Your Intentions?_ speech.”

Lexa rolls her eyes, but he catches the quirk of her lips, just barely there, but he knows what to look for.

 

Bellamy does get around to helping Lincoln plot out his berry garden; he’s got a sizable front yard, and his boyfriend Wells is home, and offers them some sort of special iced tea that tastes like maple syrup. Bellamy takes Lincoln to pick out supplies at the Tractor Supply store downtown, and when they get back, Clarke is outside with Wells, lounging on a pair of plastic lawn chairs, the kind typically found at a local town pool.

She grins up at him, raising a hand to shield her eyes. “Hey, flower guy.”

Bellamy snorts. “Hi, tattoo girl.” He waves the carton of potted berries in his hand. “Are you going to help?”

“I’m pretty sure I’ll have a better view from right here,” she decides, taking a large sip from her tea. But within five minutes, she’s heaving a huge sigh and crossing over, to get her hands and knees in the dirt with them, staining her pretty capris without much care.

“So, this is what you do for fun?” Clarke huffs, scrunching her nose up at the soil stuck to her skin and caught under her fingernails. She tries to brush off the knees of her pants without much of a result, before simply giving up and plopping back on the grass. Wells plopped a floppy sunhat on her head earlier, because she’d been looking a little too pink for comfort, and she keeps having to push the brim up, to see.

She is, in all ways, adorable. And Bellamy would really like to make out with her, now, on Lincoln’s front lawn. He bets she’d taste like sunlight.

“Usually, yeah,” he grins when she makes a face, disgusted. “Sometimes I read, or something.”

“Do you also jump willingly into volcanoes?” she asks. “Or hurl yourself into the sun?”

“Only on every other Thursday,” Bellamy says, serious, and she laughs.

She’s definitely checking him out, which he appreciates. If anyone asks, he took his shirt off because he was getting overheated in the sun, but between Lincoln and Wells’ discrete appreciative glances, and Clarke’s _less_ discrete looks, no one has. At one point in time, he would have been a little ashamed of using his body to bribe Clarke into asking him out, but desperate times call for desperate measures, and anyway Bellamy knows what works best for him, and it is definitely blatantly flaunting his abs.

“Hey, Clarke,” he starts, only to be cut off by his ridiculous ring tone. It’s a bunch of mewling kittens, and it’s his own fault, letting Octavia hold his phone for more than three seconds at a time. He’s only kept it for so long because--kittens sound really cute, okay? And sometimes if he’s having a rough or overwhelming day, the ring tone cheers him up.

“It’s Lexa,” he explains, glancing at the screen.

*CAT EMOJI* COMMANDER: Blake it is an emergency. Can you pick up half a dozen eggs from the supermarket? Free range preferably but I suppose any would do.

*CAT EMOJI* COMMANDER: I will reimburse you when you get home, of course.

*CAT EMOJI* COMMANDER: There is no rush, except that it is an emergency.

*CAT EMOJI* COMMANDER: So take your time with the bald man’s berries.

 _*_ CAT EMOJI* COMMANDER: But be aware that you may come home to find my corpse.

Bellamy rolls his eyes at her dramatics and texts back _please find your chill. i’ll be home in like 15._ He’s intending to show the series to Clarke, so she can see how ridiculous his best friend is, and mock her with him, but when he looks up he sees she’s apparently sobered.

“I should get going,” she decides, and heads inside to say goodbye to her friends, leaving Bellamy to stare dumbly after her.

“How is it possible for you to cockblock me from this apartment?” Bellamy calls, walking into the kitchen, where Lexa is standing at the counter, glaring into the mixing bowl like she might be able to will it into cupcake, or whatever she’s making, form. “What’s your weird egg emergency?”

Lexa just waves a hand impatiently and snatches the Food Lion bag from him, cracking two eggs in each hand, expertly. “I’m making flan,” she says, like that should explain everything. “We were out of eggs.”

Bellamy stares at her, waiting for the punchline. “You’re kidding.”

Lexa levels him with a heavy look. “Salmonella is no joke, Bellamy.”

“Who are you dating?” he asks, because that’s become his go-to response when Lexa is annoying him. Usually she just rolls her eyes or glares at him, or hits him with the nearest object that won’t cause immediate death.

Now she just ignores him, and Bellamy makes a face, heaving himself up on the counter to watch her work. Lexa is uncommonly talented in the kitchen, and somehow manages to make cracking eggs seem like an art form. “What are you making, anyway?”

“Flan,” Lexa says. “Octavia’s birthday is tomorrow.”

Lexa met Octavia when she visited his college, her senior year. They’d nearly killed each other at first, and argued the whole weekend, and then once Octavia left, Lexa decided she liked her. Now she talks to Octavia more than even Bellamy does, and he’s pretty sure their friendship is based on how many different ways they could kill a person and get away with it.

“I know, I’ve got some tiger lilies I’m dip-dying purple.” They’ve been Octavia’s favorite since Bellamy was nineteen and first figured out he could dye flowers any color he wanted.

Coincidentally, Pride Week starts in two days, and Bellamy had been thinking of putting up some decorations, to surprise Lexa. He knows she hasn’t been involved with anything since they graduated, but she used to sit in at demonstrations on their campus, with rainbows streaked down her eyelids and cheeks, like war paint.

And now he knows just what he’s going to do. Bellamy hops off the counter and snatches one of the chopped up bits of apple that Lexa’s set out in a bowl, smacking a kiss to her cheek in distraction. She swats at him with a spatula as he leaves.

Clarke finds him the next morning, out around the back in the tiny courtyard that their shops share. There’s nothing back there except for two rusty forgotten-looking dumpsters, a pile of soggy cardboard boxes that have melted into one, and an old broken chair from Clarke’s parlor, with a flaky leather seat and no arm rests.

Bellamy’s set up a rickety metal camping table that he found in the old storage shed tucked behind his apartment building. He has no idea who owns the shed or the things in it, but judging by the cobwebs, they won’t notice if he’s borrowed something for just two days or so.

On the table, he’s set out five different vases filled with different-colored water--purple, blue, red, yellow, and green. Now he’s working on snipping the stems of the roses into fifths, and tying them off with string. He’ll dip the separate parts into the different vases, and the effect will be tie-dyed rainbow petals. If it works, which it should. He watched half a dozen tutorials on Youtube, first.

“What’s all this?” Clarke asks, ducking down to inspect the vase of purple water. “Easter already passed, you know.”

Bellamy snorts, and holds up the white roses. “Rainbow, for Pride Week.”

Clarke straightens up and beams at him. “I didn’t know you guys did that. That’s really nice of you.”

“Yeah, well it’s mostly for Lexa, really,” he shrugs, feeling a little awkward. He knows Clarke’s bi, and they’ve discussed it some, and he doesn’t want to use flowers for his best friend as a way to seem better than he is. “She’s gay.”

Clarke’s eyes go wide, and he immediately feels shitty. He was sure Lexa had already mentioned it; she’s out to everyone else. “I know that sometimes people have exceptions,” she says. “It’s great that you’re so open about it.”

Bellamy tries to think back through their conversation, sure that he must have missed something. But he didn’t, so he says “What do you mean?”

“Lexa’s a lesbian,” she says, slowly like she’s testing the waters. Bellamy nods. “But she’s dating you,” she says next, and he chokes.

“ _What_? No--we’re not dating, we’re just business partners.”

Clarke frowns at him. “You live together.”

“Yeah, as roommates,” Bellamy says. The world’s beginning to feel a little surreal. “With separate bedrooms. I can’t believe you thought we were _dating_!”

“I can’t believe you _aren’t_!” Clarke bites at her lower lip, a nervous habit he’s noticed. The movement pulls his eyes down to her mouth, and he watches it change as she smiles. “So,” she says, stepping forward until the toes of their shoes brush against each other, “Just to make sure--are you dating anyone?”

“Not yet,” Bellamy says, and she kisses him.

“Do you want to be dating someone?” Clarke asks when she pulls away.

“Only if it’s you,” he says, and she grins when he chases after her, laughing against his mouth. Bellamy kisses her anyway, pressing closer and closer until her hip knocks the metal table and sends the water vases crashing down, splashing them both with a rainbow of food coloring.

Lexa doesn’t notice them at first, because the first thing she sees when she walks into the shop, are the baskets of rainbow-dyed roses up front.

 _Then_ she sees them, tucked behind the register, and they’ve stopped making out, but that means next to nothing. Lexa’s like a shark when she senses feelings, sniffing them out like blood. She narrows her eyes at both of them.

“So that’s finally happened, then,” she decides. “Good. Maybe you’ll be less pathetic, now.”

“Who are you dating?” Bellamy calls across the floor, and Lexa flips him off over her shoulder.

 

He figures out the answer a few weeks later, when he walks into his apartment to find Lexa on the sofa, with Octavia in her lap, kissing her neck with a moan. They both jump at the sound of him dropping his keys on the hardwood, and Octavia scrambles off, while Lexa just watches him.

Bellamy opens his mouth to say-- _something_ , anything, but he doesn’t have any words. He just nods, once, picks up his keys, and walks to Clarke’s place.

Clarke lives in a tiny apartment above the local pizza place, which means her home always smells like garlic and tomatoes, and her floors are heated by the giant industrial oven downstairs.

He doesn’t bother knocking, just walks in and crosses over to where she’s reading on her couch. He flops down, settling with his head in her lap, and Clarke runs her hands through his hair, like usual.

In retrospect, they’re definitely moving quickly. Bellamy can’t say he minds.

“My best friend is dating my sister,” he says, and it even sounds unbelievable out loud. Clarke hums, sympathetically.

“Are you against them dating?”

“Yes,” he decides, on impulse, but then thinks better of it. He remembers what Lexa was like, when she was dating someone. She’s a serial monogamist, intensely devoted, to the point where he was convinced there would never be anyone who could deserve her. “No.”

“You’re taking this a lot better than I would have expected,” Clarke muses. “No tantrums, or anything.”

Bellamy grins, rolling over so his mouth is pressed against her thigh. He hears her swallow a groan, and grins wider. “It’s almost like I’m a well-adjusted adult, capable of controlling my emotions.” He reaches around and pulls her down by her hips, until they’re both laying down on the couch, and he’s on top of her.

She leans up to kiss him. “So does that mean you don’t need to de-stress?” she asks, all fake innocence, even as she rubs up against him on the last word.

“Nope. I’m absolutely stressed,” Bellamy says, getting her out of her clothes, until she’s nothing but pale skin underneath him, tattoos sprinkled across her stomach and shoulders. He bends down to press his mouth against the pomegranate, and Clarke leans up to meet him.

“I should help with that,” she decides, tugging at his shirt like it’s offending her. Bellamy tosses it across the room. He’ll probably lose it in the cluttered mess of her apartment, but he’ll worry about that later. Right now his girlfriend’s sliding her hand down his pants, and he’s a little bit preoccupied.

 

Lexa’s sitting up when he gets home the next morning. It looks like she hasn’t moved since he last saw her, and he feels a little bit guilty for not sending a text or something, explaining that he was spending the night at Clarke’s.

“Where’s Octavia?” he asks, careful.

Lexa speaks just as gingerly, like they’re both afraid of saying the wrong thing. “She went home. We both thought that would be--for the best.”

There’s a pause, where they watch each other, each waiting for the other to make the first move.

“How long have you two been...” he trails off. Lexa’s a smart girl; she’ll know what he’s asking.

“Since March,” she says.

Bellamy nods. Honestly, he’d expected it to have been longer. “And what are your intentions with my sister?” he asks, just to be a dick.

But Lexa’s impossibly earnest. “To make her happy, for as long as I can. I--I think we make each other happy, Bellamy, and--”

Bellamy cuts her off, grinning because he can’t really help it. He’s just so used to Lexa being a snarky asshole, like him, that when she’s like _this_ \--caring and honest and in love--it sort of throws him off a little. “You know it’s fine, right? You don’t have to ask my permission. Octavia’s eighteen, she’s her own person. You’re both adults.”

Lexa frowns. “But I _want_ \--not your permission. I want you to be--”

“I’m fine too,” Bellamy assures her. “Seriously. I love you, I love her, I don’t want to walk in on you guys ever again, but other than that? We’re good, Lexa.”

She nods, and he sees her throat work, like she’s trying hard to swallow. If Lexa was a fan of casual affection, Bellamy would hug her. But he knows she isn’t, so instead he just waggles his eyebrows and nods towards the kitchen.

“I was thinking I’d make the greasiest breakfast imaginable. What do you say?”

Lexa ducks her head, which means she’s smiling. “I say you’re going to die of a heart attack at thirty-five, Blake.”

“Which means I’ve still got ten good years left,” he chirps, and she flicks him in the ear.

 

 

 


End file.
